


A Place to Keep

by 27noir



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27noir/pseuds/27noir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Erik needed to do to find home was to find Charles</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place to Keep

At first, Erik dreamed of stately houses—castles really—with many rooms, most without real purpose, rooms to just put furniture in. Ornate decorations, wide hallways, expensive art. He wanted it to smell of money. This is where he wanted to live. And when he had the means (which didn't take long, he realized, when he put his mind to it) he found just a property. He made it his head quarters. And tried to make it home. He tried to fill it, buying things he had no need for, just to put in the rooms. Even the library was filled with things that he would never dream of reading, tomes and volumes from floor to ceiling in an attempt to fill the void of empty shelves.

In the end, the house was too big and too empty, despite all the stuff. It tried so hard to be what it was not, and it haunted him. He could not sleep in it. It made him agitated, irritable, aggressive. It was a constant reminder of what he had lost, despite all he had gained, and what he could not have. Every room spoke of those that lingered in his mind. And he had to get out. 

Sometimes he dreamed of the home he had lived in as a child. But he only remembered pieces: his mother at the stove, face warm and kind, lit up by the fire; the tear in the wallpaper at the head of his bed, which he would run his fingers over at night when he was scared; his father’s rough long hands and the smell of shoe polish. He spent a month in his home town stalking the streets, trying to find some remains of his childhood. But nothing looked familiar. Nothing felt familiar. The entire city was changed, broken down by the war, and then covered up with new bricks and buildings.

He continued to travel, only coming back to the large and imposing dwelling that was his “home” for Brotherhood business. Slowly, unconsciously perhaps, he delegated most of his duties away. Let Mystique take care of this, Miss Frost can handle that. When he finally realized he had become a figure head to his own cause, so did the realization that he didn’t care. He got on another plane and flew to India, then New Zealand, just skipped around the globe, searching. Until even travel became wearisome and the need to claim something and make it his own too great.

He found a small remote property with a tiny shack of a house. But it held out the wind and the rain and the cold. He kept the bare essentials: a stove, a bed, a few  books worn with use. He passed his time bending scrap metal into abstract designs, which began to fill the front lawn. He even risked to take off the helmet. He relaxed. He found, not joy, not even contentment, but perhaps a  bit peace in the simple routine he made for himself. But it was still not home.

Erik was not sure how much time had past, it could have been months, it could have been years, when Charles finally found him. One of his children drove him up he gravel lane to the house, and helped him out of the car and into his chair. Erik pretended not to notice, just continued to warp the metal in his hands, making another odd creation for the menagerie on his lawn. He did not look up as Charles approached, not till Charles sat in front of him, not till Charles said his name.

_Erik._

He had aged, but he was Charles as Erik remembered him, despite the chair. His eyes were the same. And the way he held himself, way he moved his hands. Especially the way he looked at Erik, like not a day had passed. Calm and accepting. 

Erik just stares at him, unsure of what to say. Part of him wants to just get in the car with Charles and let him bring him back to that monstrous house, the one place he ever felt remotely at home. But then remembers that now it is a  _school,_ not just Charles’ home anymore, and doesn’t think he can handle the sounds and movements of children scampering around what he once felt some claim to. ( _Not that he feels claim to it anymore.)_

Another part of him wants to ask Charles to stay here with him, in his crude little house, even though he know Charles will not forsake everything for him. But maybe, if he did, this place would finally feel like a home, instead of a waiting place.

And then, after years and years, Erik finally understands that it was never a building he was after, it is Charles himself. That all Erik needed to do to find home was to find Charles. It was that simple.

Only then does he realize that Charles has two fingers at his temple, leaning his arm on the arm rest, smiling a little, the way he did when he won a game of chess. Erik should probably be angry with Charles but he is too tired of wandering and waiting and trying to be.

Instead he kneels in front of Charles’ chair and takes his face in his hands and touches their foreheads together.

_I just want to be with you._ It doesn’t matter if he said it out loud or just thought it, because Charles hears it.

“I was wrong, I guess we do want the same thing, my friend.” There is a little laughter in Charles’ voice, but Erik doesn’t really notice.  _My friend,_ is what Erik’s ears hear, but his mind hears  _My love,_ and he thinks, yes, this is home.


End file.
